


chasing leaves in the wind

by klose



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 12:52:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4060738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klose/pseuds/klose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon his return from the Nírnaeth Arnoediad, Beleg finds solace with Nellas in the woods of Doriath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	chasing leaves in the wind

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. [This commissioned artwork](http://epigenetics.tumblr.com/post/119687341967/tosquinha-nellas-and-beleg-being-extra-cute) that the incredibly talented [tosquinha](http://tosquinha.tumblr.com) did for me is everything *__* (and to blame for this fic).
> 
> 2\. Regarding Nellas: I fell in love with her many years ago through the snippets in _Unfinished Tales_ , (long before we even had the announcement of _Children of Húrin_ 's publication!) portraying her as Túrin's socially awkward baby-sitter/teacher. UT makes no mention of her age, so I always imagined her as an adult. I think it could be argued that her description in CoH doesn't totally contradict this; [Oshun's biography of Nellas at the SWG](http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/reference/references/pf/nellas.php) has a nice discussion accordingly.
> 
> 3\. Last but definitely not least, thanks very much to [Binka](http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewuser.php?uid=23) for invaluable help in making this story better! All remaining mistakes are my own.

* * *

 

Mablung chooses to linger in Thingol’s court, giving tidings of the battle to all who would seek it, but Beleg excuses himself as soon as he has finished his meal. The king has heard and dissected their report, they have both soaked long in Menegroth’s hot underground springs and eaten well in its halls; there is nothing further for him here. Mablung will stick around for the comforts of a warm bed, no doubt, but after weeks of failed fighting and fleeing for their lives, Beleg is more than ready to return to the peace of Doriath’s woods.

It is late afternoon by the time he manages to escape the city’s gates, being waylaid en route by various people badgering him for gossip from the outer lands, but finally Beleg makes his way into the forest, glad to be once again surrounded by greenery, rather than caverns of stone.

He almost misses the soft sounds of rustling; not made by the breeze or any of the small animals that dwell here, but by a person—almost. Beleg does not break his stride, but he does straighten his back and discreetly look around.

There: a whisper of cloth, and a bare ankle, up in the trees just ahead of him. Beleg grins, realising who his observer is, and whistles a four-note song, enquiring. The answering whistle—higher in pitch than his, and far sweeter to hear—holds a note of challenge, and his grin broadens.

He leaps easily into a lower branch on the nearest tree, but Nellas has anticipated this, and Beleg catches only fleeting glimpses of dark green linen and bare limbs as she flees quickly and lightly through the trees.

The sounds of soft laughter, like sweet bells, echo in the canopy alongside the trilling of birds and other small animals. Beleg himself laughs in delight as he gives chase, finding joy in this simplest of things—running through the woods and shedding the darker memories of recent days as the trees shake their branches under his feet, taking their own merriment in this game as they clear a path for him.

Nellas is swift and light on her feet, but Beleg has been a hunter and soldier since long before she was born, and he quickly recovers his ground against her. He is right at her heels when she banks a hard left, breaking through the foliage to leap into a glade, taking their race onto dark green undergrowth dotted with little white flowers.

Beleg lands after her with ease, but slows to a sharp stop. “I concede!” he cries out dramatically, throwing himself to the ground.

He stays completely still, eyes closed. Nellas approaches him quietly, apparently waiting until he can feel her breathing directly above him—no doubt peering at him with equal parts curiosity and suspicion—and he quickly pulls her down next to him and tickles her sides before she can run away again.

Her gasped “Beleg!” turns into a shriek and then into helpless giggles that only stop when he notices tears of mirth streaming down her rosy cheeks and figures he’s needled her enough. Still, there’s something incredibly soft and innocent about the way her freckled nose scrunches up when she laughs—and maybe something less innocent, but nonetheless very appealing, in how her breast heaves as she squirms under his light touches—that feels like a balm to his soul after the blood and grief of the failed campaign he’s returned from.

"You're awful," Nellas huffs breathlessly, still tittering a little even after he has stopped tormenting her. They lie on their backs in the glade, gazing up at the canopy of leaves and branches above them.

"Says the lady who stalks me as if I were prey ripe for hunting," he answers, amused, as he catches his own breath. She inadvertently man-handled the bruise lingering on his left flank, while trying to tickle him back, and it hurts, just a little. Even though he heals quickly enough, on the whole, his body hasn’t quite forgotten the pain of the grotesque Orc mace that bore down upon him on the blood-soaked plains of Anfauglith only weeks ago.

"Yet you were the one chasing me!” Nellas says, turning on her side to face him, eyes glittering with mirth. “But I almost outran you," she adds, nudging his side.

Beleg smiles at the old joke. Her father had been a warden under his command, many years ago, and had sometimes invited Beleg to visit his family during their rest periods from protecting Doriath's borders. Nellas had been a sweet child back in those days, if a shy and lonely one, and much of his visits had been spent chasing her around in fun and games, pretending to be an orc to her princess.

Of course, she no longer is that endearing child, but a woman full-grown—kind, intelligent, and quite beautiful too; all doe-eyes and soft skin and lithe curves. The painful shyness, however, has persisted. Beleg does not himself care for dawdling in Thingol’s court, gossiping the day away, so he does understand some of Nellas’ aversion to Menegroth. But a preference for solitude is one thing; it is her incapacitating fearfulness towards crowds that troubles him. Still, it has not stopped her being a perfectly self-sufficient adult: she is probably more comfortable in the forest and knowledgeable in woodcraft than most of Thingol’s folk.

"Come with me," he says, sitting up. Taking her hand, he leads her further down the meadow, towards a willow tree that hangs over a brook.

Beleg helps Nellas onto one of the taller and broader roots at the tree’s base, that makes a fairly comfortable seat, and settles down on the grass at her feet. This is easily one of his favourite places in this part of Doriath, though he has not been here in a while, and so he is content to quietly watch the gurgling water while leaves sway in the breeze and birds chirp nearby—and to forget that outside the Girdle, life is not nearly so simple. Especially not now, with Bauglir overrunning Hithlum and most of Beleriand outside Doriath in these last few weeks after the fifth battle.

It is only after a long stretch of companionable silence that Nellas speaks up. "The trees have missed you.”

Beleg has sensed it too; the deep questioning hum in the undergrowth and all around them. The ancient willow they’re resting upon has drawn its branches closer over them, almost as if to shield them from the outside world. He rests his hand upon the gnarled root next to him, thanking it for its care.

But he hears also what Nellas does not say. "Only the trees?" he asks, lightly teasing, a smile forming upon his lips.

She tugs him closer, and he complies, resting his head on her lap. She is certainly a softer and far more pleasant pillow than he has had in many days.

"The birds as well," she concedes. "And maybe the squirrels."

Beleg tilts his head back to look at her, though she turns away, blushing, when their eyes meet.

"I too have missed the trees and the birds,” he says lightly. “As well as the squirrels… and certain beautiful maidens with soft wavy hair and sweet smiles."

Nellas keeps her eyes averted, but her blush deepens into a comely shade of scarlet. The soft glow of evening dusk peeking through the delicate willow leaves casts her in a dusky halo of purple and gold, and Beleg feels his breath catch as he looks up at her.

He had been determined not to notice, for the longest time, how she had blossomed from that cherished little girl to an achingly lovely young lady, one who had not lost that child-like wonder and affection for the simple things; such things that most people ignored—the blooming of a flower, the beautiful sounds of Doriathrin. And yet…

Her skin is soft under his calloused hand, and just a little sticky from the tree sap she diligently collects and cooks into syrup for the tables of Menegroth. She trembles under his touch—or maybe he is the one trembling—and her eyes, wide and dark under her long lashes, dart back to his.

"And I've missed certain handsome marchwardens,” she whispers, brushing hair out of his eyes. “With their strong arms and—and generous mouths I’d like to kiss.”

She gasps as his hand slips from her cheek and back into her soft hair, where he plucks off a stray twig. “So what’s stopping you?” he murmurs, his voice suddenly gravelly.

“I—I don’t see any around,” she says quickly, looking away again but not before Beleg catches her shaking with suppressed laughter.

“Now who is being awful?” he groans, ducking his head and letting his hand fall back to cover his eyes in mock-pain, all the while trying and failing not to laugh himself.

 “Welllll…” She bends closer towards him, sliding her hands around his chest in a friendly embrace. “Maybe if you stayed and spent the evening with me, like the gallant marchwarden that you are …”

Chuckling, he covers one of her hands with his. “I will happily do that, doe-eyes, and would even if there was no promise of kisses later.”

He cannot see her smile as she presses her lips to the crown of his head, but he can feel it; warm and comforting where her body touches his. Even his many friends don’t try to get this close, at least not without intimate intent; but for all the suggestive bantering between him and Nellas, she has always been self-effacing and open-hearted with her affection—in a way that Beleg might have called maternal, if he’d ever known parental love of his own.  

“Then maybe there will be more than kisses,” she says cheerfully, as she straightens up again.

“I meant to pass the night in a high branch, sleeping under the stars, but that sounds much better.”

“We could do that as well, there is a yew tree nearby with a very wide bough. I think Lúthien and Beren might have used it once…” Nellas giggles.

Beleg chokes. “I never saw Beren as much of a tree-climber.”

She starts playing with his hair, then, winding locks of it around her fingers. “He was not as nimble as Lúthien or any of our kind, but the trees came to love him just as the birds and beasts did. But I do not think the Younger Children are all like that, are they?

“They cannot commune with the wild things of the earth as we do,” he agrees slowly, closing his eyes to soak in her pleasant touches. “But in other aspects they can be our equal, perhaps even our betters. I have seen them fight with such great valour and honour, despite the brief fragility of their lives, on a par or greater than many warriors of Doriath.”

He falls quiet then, thinking particularly of the Men of the House of Hador as he saw them last, only weeks before. They had formed a defensive line upon the Fen of Serech, buying time for Gondolin’s forces to retreat. And for Beleg and Mablung, too, as they had joined the remnants of Fingon’s host that Turgon had gathered together after Balrogs had slain the the Noldorin king.

He and Mablung had parted ways from the Gondolindrim at the passes of Sirion, both still breathing and accomplished in their intent to partake in great deeds—though at what cost, remains to be seen. Anyone who does not have the fortune to live within the safety of Doriath, Gondolin, and Nargothrond is now as good as damned, not least those who wait in Dor-lómin. Their warriors are all dead to a man, or worse; and Beleg shudders slightly as he recalls their leaders Húrin and Huor as young boys in the care of their uncle Haldir in Brethil near Dimbar, not so long ago.

The intervening years had seen them mature into fully grown men, and yet they had still been centuries younger than the greenest marchwardens under Beleg’s command, when they had so readily given up their lives to protect all that was still good in the world. And Beleg has to wonder—is that not courage, more so than cowering in fear behind Melian’s enchantments?

Nellas continues toying with his hair, but begins to speak slowly and carefully, as if sensing the darker turn of his thoughts. “I wonder how these Second Born are so much like us and yet not. Was it willed so, that each kindred might learn from the other?”

“Perhaps. Yet even in Doriath, there are many who hold little love for Beren or his kin, and see no such purpose in mingling.”

“But he was as strong and noble as any of Doriath’s captains!” Nellas says, sounding indignant. “And moreover to me he seemed exceedingly daring, living fearlessly on his own terms… some might wonder what Lúthien saw in him, but they seemed well-matched to my eyes.”

Her voice sounds so longing that Beleg has to wonder, “And are you hoping for a Beren of your own, fair Nellas?” He says it without rancor, only gently teasing, but Nellas stills for a moment before disentangling from him. When he looks up, he sees that her face is flushed again, but darker this time, more unhappy than shy.

“And if I did, would that be wrong?” she asks, and she does not sound so much naïve as defiant. She gets to her feet and strides down to the bank of the stream to stare into the gurgling water, before continuing. “His love for Lúthien, and hers for him, defeated death and grief and the strongest of the Powers. They fought for each other to the very last, but always with honour. Blessed are all who should know such love.”

“Theirs was a noble and heroic love that will be sung of for ages to come, no doubt,” Beleg says, standing up himself to join her. “But do not think it is the only desirable love, Nellas! Take your father, who came to Doriath for your mother’s sake, and took up the post of a marchwarden so that he might better protect you both. The minstrels will not sing of their marriage, perhaps, but their love was no less fierce or worthy for it.” He smiles down at her, taking her small hands in his, even as she gazes back at him with shining eyes. “There is love too, of a noble and gracious sort, in comforting a friend whose recent days have been filled with bloodshed leading to grief, and evil tidings lacking all hope.”

Nellas blushes again, but the flush of her cheeks is tempered by a frown as her brows furrow in concern. “I’m glad you've come back to us,” she says quietly.

She means the war, of course, though Beleg wonders how she came to know about it. There had been no time to speak with her before his departure, and she is rarely in the city to hear news or gossip—but maybe one of Melian’s handmaidens had spoken of it to her when trading for her tree syrup.

“Beleg, what will happen now?” Her fingers tighten against his, but she does not sound young or scared, just concerned, and honestly wanting to understand what it all means. That makes her wiser than most of Thingol’s courtiers, at least.

Sighing, Beleg draws her closer in a loose embrace. “Nothing catastrophic yet in Doriath; we are fortunate to live under Melian’s protection. But I do not think we can remain so for much longer.”

He does not need to explain—Nellas knows enough about the dangers lurking outside their borders; she lost her own parents to them. But she only tilts her head and purses her lips, as if deeply contemplating his words.

“Then we must live as Beren and Lúthien,” she says after a long moment, very matter-of-factly, before reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck, drawing them closer together. Beleg marvels, not for the first time, how much smaller she is than him, even as an adult, and how nicely she fits in his arms anyway.

“And how is that, doe-eyes?” he asks, indulgence replete in the low tone of his voice, and the quirk of his mouth.

“Without fear for the morrow,” she says, very seriously. “As if each day is our last, led not by what we deem to be clever prudent, but by our hearts.”

Living dauntlessly, on his own counsel, is how Beleg has always lived, but this is a more novel way of thinking, to his eyes. “To follow love, rather than wisdom, then?”

Nellas nods, almost eagerly. “What use is wisdom if it means we cannot have love?”

“What, indeed,” Beleg echoes, shaking his head slightly—not quite in disbelief, but in something close to it at the sentiment. It is perfectly Nellas; both perceptive and just a little idealistic.

And Beleg feels a rush of affection for her, anyway, and her efforts to lift his spirits. She is not wrong, really.

“Then I shall do like Beren and Lúthien, and you, o fair and wise maiden,” he says lightly. “To allow myself to be ruled by my heart, rather than my head, come what may.”

She smiles up at him, just a tremulous little thing. “Come joy and contentment, at the very best, and a lack of regrets, at the very worst,” she murmurs, resting her head on his chest.

He presses his lips to her hair and holds her close midst the humming insects, rustling leaves and trickling water. A lack of regrets—yes. For how can he come to regret a life ruled by love rather than reason? Reason would have had him following Olwë to the West and staying there, would have had him choosing to live in Ossiriand on his own terms, would certainly have kept him in Doriath while the Noldor marched forth to war against the darkest of the Powers. His choices had brought him many things, grief and struggle not the least, but regret never played a part in any of it.

Beleg basks in the grace of her hug for a long while before pulling back with a tender smile. “Now then, I promised you the evening, did I not? And you promised kisses…”

Nellas grins back, eyes sparkling with mirth as she nimbly dances out of his arms. “Catch me first, Cúthalion, if you wish to claim them—since you forfeited our earlier chase!”

“Then gladly will I catch you, pretty one!” Beleg calls back with a gleeful shout, as she flees the clearing, tittering.  

Above them, day gives way to night as the stars come out, glittering in ever hopeful beauty despite Beleriand’s recent sorrows; and even as they do, Beleg and Nellas continue their game, winding deeper and deeper into the woods—ever and always children of the wild, most at home under tall trees and green leaves.


End file.
